


too much, more than enough

by gummies



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A Leitner Made Them Do It, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Collars, M/M, Miscommunication, Petplay, but "do it" is "perceive their boss as a cat for several months"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23607679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gummies/pseuds/gummies
Summary: "What happened this time?" Tim asked. He was trying to be casual, Martin could tell, but there was an anxiety in his voice he just couldn't hide.Martin didn't look up from the breakroom’s stove, where he was putting a kettle on. Chamomile, this time. He needed something calming.He'd been making a lot of tea, the last week. Martin wasn't going to pretend it was anything other than a coping mechanism. It'd always been, really. There was just something about the process that soothed him. Moving his hands through the familiar motions, too simple for evenhimto mess up. Being productive. Helpful."Why did anything have to happen?" Martin shot back, taking out the last box of Earl Grey.Jon’s favourite,his mind supplied distractedly. He hesitated at the cupboard. There was a patterned mug in the back, stylistic cats printed around the words "don't talk to me before I've had my milk". Martin pointedly did not look at it, taking down three plain, black cups instead.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Comments: 32
Kudos: 242





	too much, more than enough

**Author's Note:**

> so, for context: this fic is inspired by elias-fucker (great name) on tumblr's leitner catjon au. the basic premise is that jon stumbles upon a spiral leitner that makes everyone see him as an office cat instead of a person, and subject him to excessive amounts of petting, praise, and so on. jon "touch starved, emotionally repressed" sims eventually decides that actually, this is the optimal situation. 
> 
> fic takes place after the leitner's been destroyed and the illusion is broken.

"What happened this time?" Tim asked. He was trying to be casual, Martin could tell, but there was an anxiety in his voice he just couldn't hide.

Martin didn't look up from the breakroom’s stove, where he was putting a kettle on. Chamomile, this time. He needed something calming.

He'd been making a lot of tea, the last week. Martin wasn't going to pretend it was anything other than a coping mechanism. It'd always been, really. There was just something about the process that soothed him. Moving his hands through the familiar motions, too simple for even _him_ to mess up. Being productive. Helpful.

"Why did anything have to happen?" Martin shot back, taking out the last box of Earl Grey. _Jon’s favourite,_ his mind supplied distractedly. He hesitated at the cupboard. There was a patterned mug in the back, stylistic cats printed around the words "don't talk to me before I've had my milk". Martin pointedly did not look at it, taking down three plain, black cups instead.

It was Sasha's cup. Not that she'd been around in a while- but still, Martin didn't want to get rid of it. Well, he _did,_ but he knew he'd feel bad afterwards. And he’d have to tell her why, once she got back. Assuming the… situation was over, by then, and she didn’t figure out what had happened on her own. Frowning, Martin turned the mug so that it was tucked behind a few others. 

“Because every time something does, you start brewing tea like a man possessed.” Tim answered. 

Martin glanced behind himself as he closed the cabinet. Tim was hunched in his chair, a pair of files sitting untouched on the table in front of him. His posture was slumped, but there was a rigidness to it, and the bags under his eyes spoke volumes. He looked the way Martin felt.

“At least I’m doing _something,”_ Martin snapped, then immediately winced. Tim raised his eyebrows. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m just…”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed, turning back to his files but making no move to open them. “Me too, mate.”

Martin braced himself against the counter, rubbing his face with one hand. “I found Jon sleeping on the floor,” he blurted out.

“Again?” Tim sighed.

“Yeah. Just a bit ago. I- I went to check on him, but he wasn't opening the door, and when I came into his office he was just… curled up in the corner. Not even on his chair, just- on the floor."

Tim bit his lip. "Was he…?"

"No," Martin said quickly, "No, he was still in his clothes, thank goodness. But- God, Tim, he looked so cold."

"I mean," Tim said, leaning back, "playing devil's advocate, here, but Jon sleeping on the job isn't exactly new."

Martin lifted his hand to shoot Tim a disbelieving look. "He was on the _floor."_

"Maybe that's where he's comfortable, now." 

"That's what worries me!" Martin said, pushing off the counter to rummage around for sugar and honey. "I don't want him to think we're going to- to _punish_ him if he uses his own desk."

"We never _punished_ him," Tim muttered with a grimace.

"Yes, we did!" Martin shot back. "We didn't let him on any of the furniture!"

"That isn't punishment- fuck, it's not like we were burning him with cigarette butts, Martin. We just… picked him up a little."

“And didn’t let him go! Even when he was crying for us to!” Martin said, closing the cupboard door perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary.

Martin’s heart ached as he thought of the sad, wailing noises Jon’s protests had deteriorated into over the last two months. It wasn’t actually crying, not really, but Martin was _not_ going to call it yowling. That felt too mean, even if it was only in his head.

“Last I recall, he was crying a lot more when we put him down than when we picked him up.” Tim argued.

“He probably thought we were going to lock him in the breakroom the moment he stopped occupying us. Jon was _scared,_ Tim. He’s still scared! Do you seriously not feel bad for what we-”

“Of _course_ I feel bad,” Tim interrupted, “I feel fucking awful, Martin. I’ve had to sit in here all day to keep myself from pulling a you and hovering.”

“I’m not-”

“My _point_ is,” Tim interrupted, “we just have to give him some space. It’s only been a week, he’s not gonna snap back to normal just because it’s over.”

Martin bit his lip. “I still think finding him someone to talk to might help."

Tim scoffed. “We are _not_ getting him a therapist.” he said firmly. “Listen, Martin, I know you want to help, but trust me on this one. The last thing Jon needs right now is a damn workplace investigation. "

Martin sighed, knowing Tim wasn't going to budge- they'd already had this argument. Among others. "I don't know how to help him," he confessed. 

"We don't even know if he needs help," Tim said, running a hand through his hair. "Like, okay- this situation sucks. That’s a fact. We did a bad thing. But right now, the best we can do is wait for the rest of _whatever_ we were under to wear off. Then he can cuss us out and we’ll all put this behind us.”

Ever since the effects were lifted, Jon had been uncharacteristically… docile. It made Martin’s stomach turn with shame. Was Jon still that frightened? That he thought he had to roll over and accept anything they did to him in order to not get hurt?

“Hold on- what do you mean “wait for the rest to wear off”? Are you still under it?”

“No,” Tim snorted, “but I’m pretty sure he is.”

“That’s _not_ funny, Tim.” Martin frowned.

“No shit. Doesn’t change that it’s true, though. Why else do you think he was playing with all those toys?”

“I- because we _conditioned_ him!” 

“What, we conditioned him to chase a feather on a stick?” Tim asked, bitter amusement clear in his voice. Martin flushed, a strange mix of affection and remorse playing through him as he recalled that particular toy. It had been- had _seemed_ like Jon’s favourite. It’d disappeared with the rest, once the book was destroyed- most likely destroyed by Jon, if only for the catharsis.

Martin could still recall the last time they’d played with it- he’d been sitting at his desk, wiggling the wand and watching Jon bat at it from where he was kneeling on the floor. If Martin hadn’t known any better, he’d have said Jon was having fun.

“Yes!” he responded, resisting the urge to check the kettle again. “The only time we were nice to him was when he was acting like a- acting the way we wanted him to! That’s how conditioning works!”

“That was _not_ the only time we were nice to him.” Tim huffed. “It wasn’t even him doing all that stuff, it was the book. Same as us.”

Martin swallowed the urge to tell Tim that it hadn’t been the _book_ who put a collar on Jon, who took him home on weekends and cuddled him into submission.

The worst part was, even though he knew what he’d done had been horrible for Jon, Martin couldn’t stop thinking about how much he’d enjoyed it. How happy he’d been to have another presence in his house, something to take care of. How soft Jon’s hair had been, once he’d finally let Martin pet him. How nice it had felt to fall asleep with him in his arms, sprawled out on top of him, laying at his feet. How _cute_ he’d looked during everything.

 _Quit thinking like that,_ Martin reprimanded himself, _it's not fair to Jon._

Torn out of his thoughts by the kettle’s whistle, Martin turned away and fumbled with the bags. 

“Fine.” He answered once he’d gotten the tea steeping, nervous energy suddenly giving way to exhaustion. “Fine, I hope you’re right.”

“Yeah.” Tim said, almost too quiet for Marin to hear. “You and me both.”

* * *

Jon yawned, arching his back as he stretched. The floorboards were as cold as ice under him. When he’d curled up, it’d been pleasant- now, the chill sent a shiver down his spine. 

A few moments ago, he’d woken to the press of a hand on his shoulder. Even through his clothes, Jon could feel the warmth it emanated. He’d twisted around in place, shoving his face into the offering palm and nuzzling his cheek against it. Unfortunately, the hand had withdrawn just as fast as it appeared. When he peeled one eye open, Jon had seen Martin standing over him, unmasked trepidation on his face.

Jon hadn’t felt like talking, so he didn’t. A few months ago, he would’ve tried to push through it, forced himself into a conversation where each word felt like pulling teeth. Instead, he rolled over onto his back and stared blearily up at Martin.

“Er. Good morning, Jon.” Martin had said, mustering what cheer he could into his voice with obvious effort.

Jon debated replying, but words were still evading him, sentences melting in his mouth half-formulated. He didn't want Martin to think he was ignoring him, however, so he settled for meowing.

Martin had cleared his throat awkwardly. “Do you, erm- would you like to get up?” He put his hand back out, palm-up this time. The gesture was familiar, and Jon responded in kind, leaning forward to sniff cursorily at the tips of his fingers. He didn't have any food, which Jon was mildly disappointed about. Martin liked to cook. He also succumbed to Jon’s begging much quicker than Tim.

“I’ll… I’ll take that as a no,” Martin had muttered, cheeks tinged with pink as he pulled his hand away.

He’d left shortly after, and Jon had lazed about for a few more moments, only getting up once the cold became too much to bear. He crawled under his desk, where he’d gathered the Archives' few blankets into a small nest. It was a tight squeeze, but he was small enough to fit. Plus, there was something comforting about being somewhere so enclosed.

Jon squirmed around, burying himself in the blankets as best he could. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than nothing. If he was honest with himself, he would much rather have been resting in Martin's bed. That's where he'd spent most nights over the last few months. It was more open than the space under Jon's desk, more exposed, but he didn't mind. It was warm. Safe. 

Jon missed it. He missed a lot of things from before the Leitner had been destroyed. The petting, the praise. His collar, especially. Someone had taken it off him on the first day, and he hadn’t seen it since. A shame- it had been a nice one. Cheap, but with a small bell that Jon had enjoyed batting. Now it was likely in a dump, and Jon's neck felt strangely bare in its absence.

Before the others could throw them out as well, Jon had taken what toys of his he could find and hidden them away in his nest for safekeeping. He still took them out, sometimes, but he tried not to let Tim or Martin see. Just in case.

Speaking of which... 

Jon dug around in the blankets, retrieving his preferred chew toy. A small, fabric mouse with a long piece of string for a tail. It was the kind with a squeaker inside, a fact Jon greatly enjoyed. He took the toy in his mouth and bit down a few times. Then sighed.

It just wasn't the same when he didn't have anyone to play with. But what other choice did he have? Jon slunk from his hiding place, mouse in tow, and out into his office, to try tossing it for himself. It landed across the room with a sad thump.

Just as he was padding over to pick it up, the door opened. Jon jerked his head back, eyes wide. 

“Hey, Jon, how're you-"

Daisy stood in the doorway, stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes traveled from Jon's desk to where he was crouched on the floor, to the stuffy still in his mouth. 

Alarm bells were ringing in Jon's head. He should say something, he knew. Stand up. Make an excuse. Anything besides sitting stock-still like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"...Ah." Daisy finished. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, before stepping the rest of the way into Jon's office, glancing surreptitiously past the door, and shutting it behind her.

Jon flattened, dropping his stomach to the floor and bringing his shoulders up. Was she going to try and take it from him, too? His jaw clenched around the toy, causing it to let out one last, awkward squeak. 

Daisy approached him, taking slow, measured steps. Her face was strangely intent, but Jon couldn't parse much beyond that. When she got within a few feet of him, Jon weighed whether he should stand his ground or run. Neither options were especially appealing. Even in this state, Jon knew she was stronger than him. Likewise, the chance to outrun her was low- faster things had certainly tried. 

Just when he was about to decide, Daisy stopped short. Then she dropped to her own knees, mirroring Jon.

Jon tilted his head in confusion, the toy dropping from his mouth. Daisy crawled closer and he scrambled backwards, hissing as he pressed his back to the wood of his desk. Instead of following him, however, she just ducked her head and picked up the mouse herself. She squeaked it at him a few times, expression almost teasing. She didn't have a tail, but Jon got the distinct impression that if she did, it'd be wagging.

Cautiously abandoning his defensive position, Jon watched as Daisy shook the toy enticingly. His eyes followed it as she shifted backwards, and Jon found himself creeping towards her. She jerked her neck and flung it between them. 

He darted forward, but before Jon could reach the plushie, Daisy lunged. She tackled him to the ground, her eyes lit up with excitement. Jon batted at her with a closed fist, managing to catch her square on the face and throw her guard. He took advantage of her surprise, wriggling out from under Daisy and clambering up onto his desk. A stack of papers slid off its surface, scattering onto the ground around them. Daisy barked playfully. She went to retrieve the toy, and Jon sprung down onto her the moment her back was turned.

Jon didn’t know how long they wrestled for, but by the time they finished, both he and Daisy were panting. She’d pinned him once again, and he was too tired to even attempt escape. Satisfied with her victory, Daisy pulled away, tongue lolling out as she caught her breath. Jon rolled into a sitting position. 

The office was practically in ruins around them. Files and books littered the floor, any earlier semblance of organization lost. His chair was lying knocked on its side. Somewhere amidst the chaos, Jon had lost a shoe.

“Got any water in here?” Daisy asked, speaking for the first time in what must’ve been at least half an hour.

Jon cleared his throat and found it dry. “Ah. No- no, I’m afraid not. There would be some in the breakroom, though, if you’d like to…?”

“Sounds good.” Daisy agreed, stretching her arms as she stood up. Jon followed suit, wincing as his back popped.

The breakroom was empty when they arrived. Just as well- Jon may have been feeling more like a human, but he still wasn’t in the mood to deal with them.

They stood by the water cooler, gulping from the little paper cups kept on top of it. When Daisy finished her third refill, she crushed hers between her fingers and threw it into the nearest trash can.

“I suppose I should- well,” Jon began, attempting to mirror Daisy’s relaxed posture with little success. “Thank you. For that.”

Daisy shrugged one shoulder, yawning violently. “S'good."

Jon took a sip from his own cup, decidedly _not_ lapping. “I know it’s… peculiar.”

“Not like it’s the weirdest thing I’ve seen.” Daisy said dryly. 

“Yes. Erm. I admit, it was nice to- to get that out of my system.”

Daisy looked him over. Jon glanced away nervously, bringing his cup back up to his laps, if only for the excuse not to speak.

“Want to do this again sometime?” She asked finally. Jon inhaled sharp enough to choke on his water. Daisy came forward and pounded her fist into his back, which didn’t help so much as it gave him a new pain to focus on.

“You- you don’t have to do that,” he wheezed.

“I know. That’s not why I’m asking. I thought you might’ve… you seemed like you liked it. And,” she added awkwardly, “Basira’s been... busy, lately. I haven’t played with anyone in a while.”

Jon faltered. "I was talking about the- wait, this is something you do regularly?”

Daisy cracked a small smile. “Yeah. It kind of seemed like you did, too.”

“No, not- I mean, I didn’t _use to._ After the Leitner, I’ve been getting, ah. Urges.”

Daisy nodded in understanding. “I think I know what you mean.”

“You do?” Jon questioned. “Because of... the Hunt?”

“Don’t know. Could be.” She said, shrugging once more. “Wasn’t yours Spiral, though?”

Jon snorted. “Unconfirmed, but yes, that does seem the most plausible. I can’t exactly go back and check.”

It was true. In typical manner, the Leitner’s effects had only ended once the book itself was destroyed. Jon would’ve burned the thing the moment he realised what’d happened, if he could’ve. But it had vanished, and Jon hadn’t been able to find it, no matter how thoroughly he searched the Archives (and Artefact Storage, on the rare occasion when Martin or Tim’s attentions were too occupied to catch him slip away)- only for it to miraculously reappear months later, just in time to be lost in a small stove fire. Jon found the whole thing a little too convenient to be anything besides orchestrated, even if Elias was steadfast that he’d had no involvement. Not that his word could be trusted.

“Guess not,” Daisy said, shaking Jon from his thoughts. “But yeah. I chew.”

“Sorry?” Jon asked. He watched as Daisy stuck her hand into the pocket of her cargo pants, rummaging around until it emerged holding something.

It was a breakaway necklace. Hanging from the cord was a small, silicone pendant about the size of a credit card and shaped like a dog bone.

"It's for chewing," Daisy supplied almost sheepishly. "I used to bite my nails."

 _Among other things,_ a voice in the back of Jon's mind whispered. He saw fingers, raw and red. Skin gnawed away with the grinding of teeth. Fangs, once sharp, going dull with disuse. It wasn't the hunger pains- those Daisy could deal with. It was the restlessness, the thrum in her ears of blood unspilled. 

"...Oh." Jon said, once he realised she was waiting for a response. Daisy tucked the necklace back into her pocket, not looking at him.

"I- that's not quite it for me," Jon continued, emboldened by a sudden rush of kinship. "It's… I enjoy not having to think, or. Be a person? Which is- obviously I _am_ still a person, even when I'm- or at least, not a _cat._ But I still, I, ah, find it… relaxing." He ran a hand down his face, sighing. "This makes no sense, does it?"

"No- I get it. It's like… giving in to your instincts, yeah? No thinking, no worrying, just doing what comes naturally."

Jon finished his water, dropping the cup next to Daisy's in the bin. “That's one way of putting it." he responded. "And I'll admit, it was rather fun."

Daisy smiled, with more ease this time. "That your way of saying we should do it again?"

Jon took a deep breath. "You know what? Sure. Why not? Though," he added, "I do have one addendum."

"Oh?" Daisy asked, raising her eyebrows.

Jon leaned away, tilting his head until he caught sight of the open door to his office. He gestured to the carnage within. "Next time, this happens at your flat."

* * *

Martin shifted the bag of takeout in his hands, nudging open the door to the Archives with his elbow. He'd taken two steps before he looked up, and what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

Jon was sitting at a table near the far wall, deep in a book. From where he was standing, Martin could see his eyes dancing across the pages. The tip of his tongue was visible between his teeth, an enraptured look in his face.

Martin practically cried with relief. It'd been a couple days since he'd last seen Jon doing… human things. Still, he'd expected it to have been a few more before he got the chance. _Maybe,_ he thought hopefully, _Jon’s starting to feel comfortable in the Archives again._ Or maybe Tim was right, and the Leitner was finally wearing off. Whatever the reason, Martin wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Stepping into the room, he was careful not to make any sudden noises. Jon had yet to look up from his book- or otherwise acknowledge Martin’s entrance- and Martin didn’t want to scare him. He'd been told he had a bit of a bad habit of sneaking up on people, mostly by Jon himself, though usually not in as eloquent words. Martin didn't think he'd be able to handle Jon looking up at him with those wide, terrified eyes. Not today. Not ever, preferably.

After he'd stepped well within Jon's line of sight, seemingly still unnoticed, however, Martin gave up and cleared his throat.

Miraculously, Jon didn't startle. He didn't even flinch. Just glanced up, settling those large, dark eyes on Martin. 

_He's never angry anymore,_ Martin thought suddenly. The well of irritation Martin had gotten so used to seeing Jon draw from had dried up. That wasn't to say he'd been _cheerful._ Just… neutral. Visibly, at least. Martin could only imagine how Jon was feeling on the inside. He supposed it made sense, in a sad sort of way. What use were human expressions to a cat? Jon had probably stopped thinking of them as something he had a right to a long time ago.

"Hi, Jon," Martin greeted, doing his best not to let his worries leak into his voice.

"Hello." Jon said simply.

"So, erm," Martin began, "how're you feeling?" He decided he wasn't going to bring the situation up, not unless Jon wanted to talk about it.

"Fine. Ah," Jon hesitated, like he was struggling to find his words. "And you?"

“I’m doing good! Just picked up something from that little place down the block." He lifted said bag, breathing in the smell of chicken and fried rice with a contented sigh. Then, taking a chance- "Speaking of which, mind if I join you?"

"Hm? Oh. Of course." Jon answered, scooting his chair over. Martin sat down, making sure to give him plenty of room. He wanted to be there for Jon, not crowd him. 

They'd been having lunch together, before everything happened. Not too often, but regularly enough that it'd been a thing. Well, Martin _hoped_ it'd been a thing. He also hoped that maybe by spending some more time together, in a casual setting, he'd be able to convince Jon they were equals again.

"So, what're you reading?" Martin asked, trying and failing to untie the knot on his bag.

Jon turned his book over, showing Martin the cover. It was an academic study of some kind, with a title too long for Martin to take in before Jon had flipped it back over.

"...Looks exciting!" Martin said. 

Jon made a small sound of what could loosely be interpreted as agreement. "It's fine. Fairly interesting so far, if contrived. I’m… enjoying it. Or, I will be, once I find where I left off. It was at my flat, so it’s been a few months since I’ve read it.”

A pang of guilt stabbed through Martin’s chest. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, unsure of how to respond. Should he apologise? Laugh it off? Attempt to initiate a serious conversation about feelings? Before he could decide on the best course of action, Jon had gone back to his book, pursing his lips as he flipped a page. Somewhat relieved, Martin tore the plastic off his fork and began to eat.

Thankfully, his meal was a good distraction. Hearty and filling in the way that all good comfort food was, but with enough flavour to keep him from just inhaling it.

The next few minutes were spent in easy silence. He ate, Jon read. They didn’t talk, but Martin was almost glad for it. This was the most relaxed he’d been around Jon in weeks; it’d be a pity to go and shatter it just because he felt like running his mouth. 

Every now and then, he’d look in Jon’s direction. Not for long- he didn’t want to make things weird. And he was doing a pretty good job at being discreet. At least, he thought he was. Then he glanced over, only to do a double take when he met Jon’s eyes.

His posture had changed. Straightened, maybe, as opposed to his position hunched over the desk. Jon’s hands were resting in his lap, body turned to face Martin. There was a slight tilt to his head, and he was staring unabashedly. Martin froze, fork half-way to his mouth. Jon’s gaze caught on the movement, and Martin’s throat went dry.

“Er, Jon,” he said, “are you… okay?”

In lieu of a response, Jon slunk from his chair. He sank to his knees with a grace that Martin would’ve been marveling at, were his _boss_ not practically _kneeling between his legs._ He heard himself inhale sharply, fork clattering onto the table as he tensed.

Before he could say anything, Jon was tipping his head and rubbing his face into the outside of Martin's thigh. 

His resulting squeak was cut off by Jon making a noise of his own- noises, more like. Small, pitiful sounds that made Martin's heart hurt to hear. It reminded him of the kind wounded animals made, and for one long, horrible moment he thought maybe Jon had been injured. Then he realised what they really meant.

Jon was _begging._

Martin swallowed, regret coming up his throat like bile. This was Jon's way of asking for _food._ He must've thought he wasn't going to get it by any other means. Or that he still wasn't allowed to try. 

"You- you don't have to- Jon, _please,_ I," Martin stuttered, voice rising several octaves in his panic. He tried to put his hands between Jon and his leg, only to jerk back when Jon nuzzled into them. _"Jon._ It- it's okay, it's over now, you don't have to- I mean, we're not going to make you..."

Martin went cold as he recalled the many days he'd caught Jon in the breakroom while under the Leitner's spell. How many times had he stumbled upon Jon going through the cabinets, the fridge, and scolded him? Enough that the lesson stuck, it seemed. When was the last time Jon had eaten? Martin wasn’t cooking for him anymore, obviously, so had he just been… waiting and hoping someone fed him? _Oh, God._ Jon might’ve been an avatar, but he still needed food, right? He must've been hungry. He must've been _starving._

"Okay, okay- we can- please stop crying, we can share!" Martin said. "I'll- will you sit back down? At the table, I mean! Please?"

Either Jon didn't hear him, or he didn't care. Despite Martin's pleas, he stayed firmly on the ground. Martin briefly considered just picking the other man up and placing him in the seat himself. But the thought was banished nearly as soon as he'd had it. If Jon was going to use a chair, he'd do it on his own. He didn't need Martin _manhandling_ him. No matter how easy it would be, or how much Martin missed that familiar weight in his arms, on his lap-

 _Stop it,_ he scolded himself. _Fuck, Jon's hurting because of what I did, and all I can think about is how much I miss doing it. What kind of friend am I?_

All throughout Martin's internal debate, Jon's cries had only gotten louder. 

Martin knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he withheld food from Jon, no matter the circumstances. And it wasn’t like he was going to make him eat off the _floor._ So, at a loss for what else to do, he grabbed a handful of his lunch and thrust it out in Jon’s direction.

Thankfully, the whining stopped immediately. Jon looked almost surprised, like he hadn’t truly been expecting Martin to give in. Like table scraps were the best thing he could’ve hoped for. Then he was leaning in and delicately taking a piece of chicken between his teeth.

A shiver ran down Martin’s spine as he felt Jon’s lips brush against his skin, the barest hint of a tongue between them. A hint that quickly turned into something more once Jon finished off the meat, apparently resorting to licking Martin’s fingers clean. 

Martin turned his head away. It didn’t help calm the blush rising on his cheeks- he might not have been able to see what was happening, but he could still feel it. Hear it, too. 

Logically, he knew this wasn’t the first time he’d done this. It probably wasn’t even in the first tens. It was, however, the first time Martin had been fully aware of what he was actually feeding. _Who_ he was feeding. He should’ve been uncomfortable, or grossed out, or whatever a normal person would’ve felt to have their boss eating out of their hand.

Martin wasn’t uncomfortable. That was perhaps the worst part- the whole thing was just so familiar. He got the sense that it should’ve been different, now that the Leitner was destroyed. It wasn’t. In spite of everything, something in him melted at the sound of Jon’s soft, satisfied mewls. If he distanced himself enough, Martin might still have been able to pretend Jon was a cat.

Risking a glance back in his direction, Martin watched as Jon nipped at his hand, clearly demanding more.

He had the absurd desire to run his hand through Jon’s hair. To smooth down the loose strands and scratch behind his ears, at the nape of his neck. The same neck he’d collared some months before. The neck he longed to see collared again, even as the realisation made him feel awful.

 _I’m sorry,_ he wanted to say. _I’m sorry that I like seeing you like this._

Instead, Martin sighed, scooping up another handful of chicken.


End file.
